


a mile away and i've got your shoes

by Imkerin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bodyswap, Borussia Dortmund, M/M, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On your 26th birthday, you wake up in the body of your soulmate, wherever and whoever they are.  You have the rest of the day to learn about them by living their life -- and to leave them a note letting them know who you are so they can find you when they come back to themselves, since spirit transference tends to be hard on the memory.</p><p>Marco's life somehow never seems to go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a mile away and i've got your shoes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellabaloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/gifts).



> soulmate bodyswap trope from [here](http://thegeminisage.tumblr.com/post/94680598838) & [here](http://mspoffin.tumblr.com/post/64555292163)

They fuck like it's the last time, hard and desperate, using every ounce of energy they have left after a shitty day and a shittier loss. Marco's nails dig into Auba's skin, clawing welts across the eagle's wings on his shoulderblades; Auba bites a violent mass of bruises into Marco's throat, across his chest, leaving marks because for the first time, it doesn't matter.

Maybe that's why for the first time, when it's over, it actually _feels_ like it's over. Marco can't think of a single thing to say to change it, so he just stares up at the flat white hotel ceiling, his arms still wrapped loosely around Auba's back, and says nothing at all. He's starting to hate early summer, just a little.

Auba's hair tickles his ear a little, his slowing breath hot-cold against the sweat on Marco's skin. He doesn't say anything either; after a minute he kisses Marco's neck, on top of one of the worst of the bitemarks, and starts to push himself up.

"No, wait," Marco says, suddenly, without thinking about it. His voice feels rough, sounds harsh. He swallows, trying to clear his throat. Auba stops, propped up on his elbows just enough to look down into his face. His expression - Marco can't put words to it, except that Auba's not smiling, and fuck if that's not competition for the worst thing that's happened to him today, which is saying a hell of a lot. He tries one of his own. It feels a little weak even to him.

Auba hesitates a second longer, then smiles back: not quite a grin, but not fake, either. Marco's struck by a sudden, powerful, insane wish that he had three arms so he could touch Auba's mouth without having to let go of him. He pushes his hands up over Auba's scratched-up back instead, pulling him down into a kiss. Auba comes easily, willingly, sliding back down on top of him.

It's enough to kiss like that for a minute or two, as slow and lingering as the sex hadn't been. But Marco is bone-tired, exhausted, and he knows Auba is, too -- and _Auba_ has a plane to catch tomorrow, a game face to put on for the fans. In a way, it's easier on Marco: he won't have to deal with any of that.

And while it's not true that he's never been the one to leave -- who can say that, in football? -- it is true that it's never felt like this before. "Stay with me tonight," he murmurs against Auba's lips, and if he wishes he didn't have to add that _tonight_ , and if he wishes he didn't have to say it at all, well. He doesn't have to admit it, because he can already feel himself drifting off.

"I'll stay," Auba says. He doesn't say goodbye, or good luck, or anything else -- that Marco can hear, anyway -- and Marco falls asleep feeling deeply, pathetically grateful for it.

 

He wakes up alone. That's the first thing he notices; the second, absurdly, is the duvet clinging to the side of the bed: the same ugly, stupid duvet Auba had shoved out of their way the night before. It shocks him into gear, adrenaline spiking through him in a jagged rush that has him sitting up so fast the blood rushes to his head, sending it spinning, and he says _"Fuck_ " maybe too loudly, and--

And that's the soonest he realizes he's not a girl, he woke up in a man's body, his soulmate is _a man_. This isn't surprising, really, Marco knows himself too well to indulge in _that much_ denial; it's just the capstone on the last year, now very possibly _the_ last year of his career... "Oh, fuck," he says again, and.

And he knows that voice, like he knows that duvet. And, when he peels his eyes off the pile of flowered fabric, his heart too tight in his chest, he knows the hands he looks down at, and the lean, naked body, and. His soulmate is _Auba_.

When he laughs (a little hysterically) it even _sounds_ like Auba, in a way that his words (wrong accent, wrong tone, wrong words) hadn't quite been right. That makes him laugh more, until he's run out of breath entirely and collapsed back onto the pillows. The ceiling is as bland and shit as it had been the night before.

He tries it again: "Fuck. Marco, you fucking idiot." He sounds like Auba doing a bad impression of Marco doing an impression of Auba, or something, he doesn't fucking know. Of all the shit he'd thought about, all the scenarios he'd dreamed up involving today, this had not been one of them. What the fuck.

The alarm on Auba's phone goes off and he startles up again, grabbing for it and pawing at the phone a minute before he manages to turn the damn thing off. He scrubs Auba's hands over his face ( _his_ face, he thinks, and laughs again, because he can't help himself, because it's so easy to laugh in Auba's body) and swings too-long legs over the side of the bed, knocking the fucking duvet to the ground, finally.

When he stands up he half-expects to fall over, because that's what happens in the movies, and Mats swore for weeks it had happened to him when he woke up in Cathy's body, but he doesn't. In a way it makes sense, because Auba's got a few inches on him but it's really not that much. It's not like he's got tits to throw him off balance.

Somehow that makes it real, and the thought's objectively funny, but he doesn't laugh as he walks into the bathroom and splashes some cold water over Auba's face while he waits for the shower to heat up.

Because, here's the thing: so he hasn't gone and gotten himself soulbonded to someone who won't understand, someone who'll demand he comes out so they can be together. That was pretty much how he'd been sure it had been going to go. So. That's good. And Auba's not a woman, that's also good. (And funny. Auba's lips twitch up, in the mirror, despite Marco's best efforts.)

It's just that there's literally no way he's going to be able to fool everyone into thinking he's Auba for the entire day, and someone is going to put the pieces together. "Call me Auba," he says to the mirror, trying to fake Auba's accent, and it is exactly as much of a failure as he'd imagined. " _Shit."_ He sounds like a cartoon.

He hurries through the shower, because as nice, very very nice, as Auba's body is, it is frankly a little fucking weird to be inside it in the _wrong way_ , and he isn't even really tempted to linger on his dick, not with Auba's body wash stinging in the scratches across his shoulders.

Getting dressed isn't a problem, either; he basically lives in Auba's pocket half the year, he knows what the guy wears, and they'd both mostly packed up already, the day before. In the middle of sticking his own clothes from that night into the bottom of Auba's suitcase, he pauses, because he'd thought about that without it really hurting: the loss doesn't sting so bad, anymore, although he'd still kind of like to slam de Bruyne's face in a door or something. Huh. Probably it's just because he may be about to absolutely fuck over both himself and his best friend, which is slightly more important than silverware even if it had seemed like the whole world yesterday, but. Silver linings. And that's the kind of stupid thought he'd normally text to Auba, except, well, he can't, for obvious reasons.

By the time he's done collecting the last few things lying around, letting his -- Auba's -- whatever -- body go through its long-engrained leaving-the-hotel ritual, he hasn't come up with any more miracles than he had during the game. All he has are two suitcases and a growing certainty that he can't do this alone.

He's thought about going AWOL in Auba's body, except it's not like people wouldn't recognize Auba, or like getting a reputation for that kind of shit wouldn't seriously fuck with Auba's life. He's thought about pretending to be Auba's Soulmate Who Definitely Isn't Marco Reus At All But Has The Same Birthday What A Strange Coincidence, but there is literally no way that wouldn't start rumors anyway, and if the paps start digging where there _is_ something to find, well, they're fucked. He's thought about pretending Auba is in a horrible mood and not willing to talk to anyone at all for any reason, but who the fuck would believe that, and how long could Marco even keep trying before he fucked it up?

No: he needs someone to run interference, which means that he has to tell someone about them, which is so fucked up and also unavoidable. According to the clock on the nightstand, he has about ten minutes until he's, _Auba's_ supposed to be downstairs for breakfast, and ten minutes really does not feel like enough time to tell someone, 'so by the way, I've been gay this whole time and it turns out I'm soulbonded to Auba, and also we've been fucking for almost the last year,' but yeah, it's going to have to be.

Before he can reconsider the idea of jumping out the window and running away into the wilds of Berlin, or just barricading the door and hiding under the bed until he wakes up in his own body again, he tosses Auba's phone onto the bed, unlocks his own, and dials Mats, because he can't think of anyone else.

"Hey," he says, as soon as Mats picks up, interrupting his _"Who--"._ "Listen, don't hang up, it's me. Except I'm Auba." He considers this a slightly better alternative to the hey-I'm-gay speech. Maybe.

"Oh shit," Mats says, after about fifteen seconds of stunned silence. "Okay. Okay. Don't move, I'm coming over."

Mats hangs up too fast to hear Marco say "Oh, my hero," which is, all things considered, probably for the best.

And, while Marco knows that Mats is only a couple doors down, it's still seriously impressive how fast he's knocking on the door, definitely less than 30 seconds. He takes a quick, short breath and opens it before Mats can draw Roman's attention, next door, because that is definitely something he doesn't want to deal with. "Hey," he says again.

Mats definitely looks a little harried, but he has since sometime in December, so it means nothing. He pushes past Marco, shutting the door behind himself firmly, then turns back, basically cornering Marco in the little hallway, and takes a good, long look at him. "You're really not joking," he says, finally.

"No," Marco says.

"Okay," Mats says, instead of _Jesus Christ Marco you incredible fuckup_ , or worse. Marco could kind of love him for that, even if that would be extremely weird because he's actually in his soulmate's body, like, right now. "Okay."

"Okay," Marco echoes, and chokes on a laugh that comes out more like an honest to god giggle and which he entirely can't help. "Sorry," he says, "fuck, sorry," but he can't seem to stop.

Mats reaches out a little gingerly and pats him on the shoulder, says "Ah, shit," and pulls him into a kind-of familiar hug with no further warning, except Marco's taller than usual so it doesn't work quite right. "Your luck, Marco." Then he's laughing too, a little disbelieving huff that makes everything seem almost normal.

"It's pretty good luck, I think," Marco says from where he's awkwardly mashed against Mats' hair, "kind of. Sometimes."

Mats lets go of him with a final bro-backpat that feels way more comforting than it has any right to, then looks over his shoulder, scanning the room, clocking the wreck of the duvet on the single bed, the two suitcases just behind him. "So, the two of you...?"

"Yeah."

"Right," Mats says.

"For like, a year," Marco says, even though Mats hadn't asked. Maybe because he hadn't, or because he hadn't asked about anyone else, or said anything about the whole horrible coming out _thing_ at all. "But we didn't think, you know, this...." He waves his hand vaguely at himself. "...This."

"Yeah," Mats says. He doesn't say anything about the timing there, either, and Marco is going to buy him an entire ice cream factory, or something.

"So we have to get me, we have to get Auba back to Dortmund. Without anyone noticing that I'm _not_ Auba."

Mats nods, but he's got his tactics face on now, and Marco relaxes just a little. "I'll sit next to you on the bus and the plane," he says. "And probably I can distract them at the airport, enough for you to get away without interviews at least. You skip breakfast. If I tell them you're feeling out of it, they'll probably help you catch a break. It'll work."

"And I can forge his signature," Marco volunteers, grinning a little madly with the relief that threatens to overwhelm him as Mats rubs at the bridge of his nose and says "Of _course_ you can."

 

And it does work. Maybe not as smoothly as Mats had made it sound, but honestly everyone is a little hungover and more than a little down about having fucked up Kloppo's last chance for silverware, so when Marco puts on Auba's headphones and ducks his head down a little like Auba does when he's this close to falling asleep on Marco's shoulder, mostly they let him be.

And Mats is there, next to him, the whole way back. It gives Marco this really, really weird feeling, somewhere between claustrophobia and exhilaration: someone knows, and it hasn't all gone to hell yet. _Mats_ knows, and he seems to be cool with it, and he's got Marco's back.

"Thanks," he tells Mats quietly, once they're home, once they've navigated through the worst of the crowd. He'd like to say a hell of a lot more but he's got no idea how to and he can't here anyway.

Mats gives him a significant look, turns him away from the last of the cameras, and says: "Don't crash that fucking Lambo."

Marco laughs, startled, and it sounds every bit as much like Auba as it had in the hotel room.

 

He does not crash Auba's Lambo, nor does he take a wild joyride around the city, although it's unbelievably tempting. It feels good to be behind the wheel again, really good; like he'd gotten used to missing it, or something, and forgot what it was like. But he pulls up to his own place all too soon and turns off the car, lifting his own suitcase out of the trunk and carrying it in. He leaves Auba's, in case there are any paps, which there probably won't be until tomorrow sometime, when he's supposed to be getting back from Berlin. But still. They haven't got this far without being careful and double careful.

Inside, he barks his shins on the coffee table and sits down on the sofa, rolling up his jeans to make sure he didn't catch himself hard enough to leave bruises. He hasn't, but he throws his legs over the arm of the couch anyway, slouching down onto it until he's stretched out flat over the seats. Auba lies like this sometimes, although usually his head's in Marco's lap while they play FIFA or whatever. It really is pretty comfortable, so he stays like that while he fishes Auba's phone out of his pocket.

Auba hasn't changed his passcode in the last two years because he's an idiot, so Marco gets into it, flips past a bunch of emails and messages, and texts Alysha '@ Marcos' so _she_ doesn't think _Auba_ crashed into a ditch somewhere. Then he texts Mats some monkeys, takes a selfie, and tosses it onto the table, lying back with a sigh.

He hasn't even thought about what to leave for Auba. Pretty much he doesn't _have_ to leave anything, because it's going to be really fucking obvious when Auba wakes up in Marco's apartment with his own car parked there, but he feels like he ought to. Everybody does, even in the stupid romcoms (which okay, feel a tiny bit less stupid at the moment, due to his stupid situation) where people already know their soulmates but hate them because of misunderstandings they're supposed to work out during their Day.

And Marco hasn't actually learned anything about Auba, today. About himself, yeah, and Mats, definitely, but Auba -- Auba's still the same, even after a day in his skin. Marco supposes he could run the contents of Auba's email through Google Translate and find out _something_ , but that's also stupid because he could steal Auba's phone and do that _any_ day.

In the end, he writes a post-it to himself that he'd told Mats in case he forgets _everything_ , sticks it to the middle of the mirror in the bathroom, and spends his last hour sharpieing his name and birthday onto Auba's arm. He's no artist, but it's an okay copy of his tattoo. Auba can wear long sleeves til it wears off, or pass it off as a drunk joke.

But seeing his name like that, written out on Auba's skin, he thinks maybe it's better than a note.


End file.
